Campfire Tales
by WolFang1011
Summary: It's All Soul's Day, but being wanted criminals stops the party from partaking in the festivities. Join them as they gather around the campfire to tell each other the best scary stories they can.


"Good morning, dear," Olga greeted her son as he waddled into the kitchen that morning. "Slept well?"

"I suppose," the boy, Richard, replied. His usually quiet demeanour seemed even more subdued. Olga looked up.

"Something the matter? Did you have a bad dream?"

The boy had always been a restless sleeper. Richard talked in his sleep every day. He sleepwalked regularly, too. Only two weeks ago, the boy had sleepwalked into a wall. Olga had laughed until she cried. Only then could she put him back to bed.

Unkind treatment towards a four-year-old, perhaps, but she couldn't help herself.

"No," Richard answered again. He had sat himself at the table, on his usual chair. Rich blond hair fell over his bowed face as he muttered a prayer. Olga smiled.

"Then?"

"I just wish the people would stop looking at us while we slept."

The dejected helplessness in her son's voice arrested Olga's attention, and she turned away from her cooking.

"Nobody watches us sleep, baby boy," she replied, laughing airily, and reached out to tousle the boy's hair.

"There _are_!" he insisted, leaning away from her touch. Richard looked up at her. "The people are _always_ there! Every night! I don't like it! I can't sleep!"

Olga wanted to laugh, to diffuse the tension. But her son's quivering bottom lip, the beseeching look in his wide blue eyes begged her to reconsider.

Her boy was upset. Olga placed her hand atop his head.

"Oh, dearest," she sighed, running her fingers through his hair. "I promise I'll take care of it. I'll talk to the people and ask them to stop bothering us, yes? I can't have my brave boy losing sleep over this!"

With a smile, she gazed down at him, hoping to see a calmer, satisfied Richard. The boy had always been jumpy, and combined with a wild imagination, that led to many situations where he had to be talked down.

But instead, Olga saw that her son was nowhere near relaxed. His eyes seemed wider now than before and... he seemed to be peering over her shoulder, mouth open and face pale.

Terror. His expression was of utter terror.

A question formed on Olga's lips, but she caught herself. There, reflected in her son's eyes. What _was_ that?

She whirled around to look, her faculties on high alert, breath hitching and heart pounding.

As she turned around, she heard her son sob.

"They're here," he said.

But it was drowned out by Olga's scream.

* * *

"You should _not_ be allowed to tell stories," Alistair told Wynne as the elderly mage finished her story. He rubbed his arms.

"What happens next?" Leliana asked, chin in hands. "That can't be the end, surely?"

Wynne chuckled and folded her hands over her lap. "I'm afraid so. What Olga saw is up for interpretation. I suppose you'll just have to fill in the blanks with your imagination."

"How diabolical," Zevran chimed in. "As expected from the possessor of such beatific bosoms."

Wynne clicked her tongue, unimpressed, but otherwise said nothing. Alistair rolled his eyes.

"All right," he said. "Who wants to go next?"

Leliana raised her hand immediately.

"Nope," Alistair shot her down. "You're a bard. You'll do too good a job. You're disqualified."

"I thought you'd like a story to be well-told, no?"

"But you'll make it too scary! I'm susceptible to that sort of thing." Alistair looked around for support. "I'll keep thinking about the creepy bits and won't be able to sleep."

Leliana sniffed haughtily. "Well, if you _didn't_ want to be scared, why ask for scary stories?"

"Because that's what you're supposed to do! Spooky stuff!" Alistair defended himself feebly. "It's All Soul's Day! And it's not like we can go traipsing into the nearest town and take part in the festivities."

"Poor excuse, friend Alistair. You should not have opened the gates of _spoop_ if you were unprepared for the consequences." Zevran clapped his shoulder, making Alistair frown, and rubbed his palms together. "I shall go next, then."

* * *

Daniella the dashing detective deposited her dazzling derriere-

* * *

"Stop this," Alistair interrupted, massaging his forehead. "Nobody wants _such _in-depth descriptions."

"Ah, but the more in-depth, the more pleasurable the experience, no?"

Wynne shook her head. "Are you incapable of telling stories like a normal person?"

Zevran hiked his shoulder. "Fine, fine. I'll proceed in your dry Fereldan fashion. I hope you're happy, friend Alistair."

"We're _not_ friends."

"Yes, yes."

* * *

Daniella sat heavily on the chair. The soft cushions absorbed her, welcoming her tired body into their soothing embrace and she sighed.

Her overtaxed mind begged her to sleep. To rest, failing that. But she couldn't stop herself from turning the facts over in her mind.

Four people were dead. One _after_ she had been assigned the case. It grated on her. Failure was not something she liked confronting.

She closed her eyes and sighed again, placing her hands on the armrests. This particular chair in the library was rather old and ornate. An old Trevelyan family heirloom, apparently. Well-used, too. Smiling, she felt the little grooves on the armrest. As Mortimer had explained, one of the dogs had chosen the chair for a chew toy.

It was tucked away in a quiet corner before a fireplace, and Daniella liked the quietude. The Trevelyans had invited her over to live their manor, true, but that didn't mean she enjoyed the proximity to her employers. No, she preferred having the space to think.

And think she did.

Four victims. A farmgirl, a guardsman, the shepherd's son and now a drunken sailor. All of her investigating had failed to unearth any connection between the victims. They all knew each other, sure – living in a small town did that – but they weren't involved in anything together. The death of the child ruled that out.

Senseless murder, then? Random? Daniella shook her head gravely. Such killers were always the hardest to find.

What had her puzzled most was the way the victims had been killed. It was gruesome. Almost as if they had been savaged by wild animals. Torn apart. Organs splayed out. Some missing. It seemed to have been an orgy of violence.

The trouble was that there were no large predators in or around Ostwick. Even if it had been wolves or wild dogs – it was the likeliest bet, considering the claw marks – surely a pack would have been spotted by now? Hunters were patrolling the area long before her services had been sought out. They had found nothing.

Except footprints. And there was nothing animalistic about that.

The only common thread connecting all the murders were these identical footprints. Small, round indentations in the ground. A wooden leg. Whoever the killer was, chances were good that it was a person who had lost a leg. Or was very dependent on a cane.

Feeling a headache coming on, Daniella opened her eyes. She peered outside tiredly, finding that the afternoon was rapidly bleeding into evening. Winter did that. Shorter days and everything. She frowned.

She wanted to get this bastard, whoever it was. Her stump-legged suspect wouldn't get away. This case haunted her, but she knew she couldn't keep it up. Her mind needed a break. Her body needed a break. She watched the moon rise out from behind the clouds.

A full moon. A good night for a drink. Adrian had invited her to the pub on numerous occasions. She wondered if she ought to take him up on that. The man had not disguised his interest in her. She would be lying if she didn't find him attractive, too. Maybe it would be a good distraction, for a night. Maybe spending some time away from the case would open her mind to new possibilities. Maybe-

The chair moved.

Daniella sat up bolt upright. The chair rattled again. Somewhat noisily.

Was it an earthquake? She wondered what she ought to do, when she heard a low, deep growl.

The hairs on her hand stood up at that. It had been so close! She looked around, peering into the shadows of the ancient library. Had the Trevelyans been hiding a hound here? But how? She'd never seen even a single stray strand of fur anywhere.

A chill ran down her spine. What was that against her arm? Something soft... smooth. Daniella looked down at the armrest, her heart thudding violently.

Hair. Hair was growing along the chair's armrest. On the backrest and along the cushions too.

Then the chair growled.

As Daniella leapt from the now howling chair and sprinted to the door, she heard it take off after her, its wooden legs kicking up a mighty racket against the floor.

Her wish had come true. Daniella had found her murderer.

* * *

Alistair, hugging a pillow to his chest, gulped as Zevran finished. "That was..."

"Different," Leliana finished for him, nodding appreciatively. "I must say, I am impressed. I was expecting a twist, but nothing like _that_."

"A werewolf chair." Wynne raised her eyebrows. "A... chairwolf?"

Zevran bowed his head. "It is my duty to entertain. Though I must admit, I am not as good as a professional bard."

"Then it's my turn, is it?" Leliana grinned at Alistair, who blanched. "Don't worry. I won't scare you." She winked. "Much."

* * *

The war was over at last. The Orlesians had finally been driven out. With a Calenhad on the Fereldan throne, things would be so much better now.

At least, that was the consensus among the soldiers. Kern was no different.

A farmboy, he had joined the war effort because he'd wanted to do his bit. He was a cook. His superiors had told him that his was the most important job. Didn't stop them from giving him a sword and sending him out when numbers were flagging, though.

To his credit, Kern had never killed. Not once. He wasn't one for violence, and believed that the cause didn't justify him taking someone else's life. So, he was rather glad the war was over.

His job now consisted of travelling from village to village along the border, providing aid to any who needed it. His unit of ten people were all happy to be doing it. Happy to be helping.

Until, one day, they ran across a band of Orlesian soldiers hiding in a barn.

The Orlesians, in their fury, attacked. They were outnumbered, but still they fought. Kern's offender was especially ruthless. He was forced to defend himself.

"Wait!" Kern exclaimed, blocking but not attacking his foe. "The war is over! We don't have to fight! The war is _over_!"

Shouting something illegible in Orlesian, the man pressed his advantage. Kern backed farther and farther away, trying to evade. He found himself dancing through a farm, across a culvert, around a stone wall. He didn't want to hurt his fellow man, but his opponent, clearly, didn't share his sentiments.

A kind of deathly anger radiated from the man's face. Hatred. Loathing. All directed at him. Kern counted himself lucky that the man wasn't a master fencer. He'd been dead otherwise.

"Please! Stop! The war's over! D'you understand? The war is over! It's over, damn it! We don't have to fight!"

He knew that he should say it in Orlesian. They _had _taught him some during the war, but now, in the midst of a life and death struggle – his first – Kern couldn't remember a single word.

In his struggle to stay alive, time had stopped making sense. He knew that he could play defence only so long. His opponent, tired from the murderous onslaught, was getting sloppy. Breathing harder. Swinging wider.

Kern wanted to wait it out, to keep dodging until he stopped, but that was not to be.

His opponent feinted up and thrust low, landing a glancing blow against Kern's thigh. It was a small cut. Not deep at all. Yet, it was still cut. Still a threat to his life. And in his inexperience, Kern reacted the only way his body knew how.

By panicking.

Upon being threatened, he felt as if someone had changed something inside his head. All of his instincts wanted the threat gone. Eliminated.

So before his opponent could raise his sword and assume guard, Kern, who had his sword still raised, thrust out with it. The world seemed to slow down around him as he watched, horrified, the tip of his blade rip into his attacker's cheek and into his mouth. He was even more horrified when his body, moving as if of its own accord, twisted the sword and buried it down the man's throat before ripping it out.

As the Orlesian coughed up blood, his throat sliced open from the inside, Kern looked unblinkingly at his bloodied blade. He dropped it immediately, as if it had burned him.

Then he saw that his opponent had collapsed.

"Oh no. No no _nonono_!" Kern muttered and went down to his knees beside the fallen man. "I asked you to stop! Why didn't you stop?!"

He pulled the dying man's head into his lap and held him there, rocking to and fro, muttering under his breath. When his party members found him an hour or so later, he was still sitting there, mumbling.

"Kern?" one of them asked cautiously. "Kernie? You hurt, mate?"

Whatever Kern had to say in response, they couldn't hear. So they moved in closer.

"Kern? Mate?" the man asked again, sitting down on his haunches beside his comrade. He placed his hand on his shoulder. "You awrite?"

Finally, Kern turned to face him. He was smiling, but tears ran down his cheeks non-stop.

"_La guerre est finie_," he muttered under his breath. "_La guerre est finie. La guerre est finie_. _La guerre est finie. La guerre..._"

* * *

Leliana finished her tale. The crackling of firewood filled the silence that had descended over the camp. It cast strange shadows over everyone's face, and Alistair regretted ever asking to listen to scary stories.

"That was..." Zevran began, brows drawn. He sounded as if he was searching for words. "Disturbing."

"Quite not what I was expecting, either," Wynne confessed quietly.

Leliana smiled. "There are many things that can haunt a person, no?"

"_I'll_ bet. Haha." Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, that's everyone. Time for bed. Get up bright and early tomorrow."

He tried to get up but his escape was foiled by Zevran, who grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back down.

"Friend Alistair, I think you're missing something," he grinned. "We are far from done."

"I think it's rather unfair, hearing all the stories without telling one yourself," Wynne mused. "It _is _All Soul's Day, after all."

"Yes, tell us a story, my prince." Leliana smirked, tilting her head. "I am eagerly awaiting this experience."

Alistair sighed. "See, I don't know any. I just like hearing stuff."

"Make something up," Leliana encouraged him. "It's about having fun, Alistair. You can do it! If you get frightened, I'll keep you company in your tent tonight."

"Andraste's tits," he muttered under his breath, silently begging his blushing cheeks to subside. "Well, all right. I don't know how I'll follow an actual bard, but here goes."

* * *

The house was perfect. It faced the river and, on lazy winter afternoons, he would be able to see the snow drift down idly from the puffy clouds. It made him happy, that. Plus, the change of scenery would do him good. All in all, the house was a good investment and Harris told the realtor so.

Tiffany, his realtor, absolutely beamed at the compliment.

"Right?!" she said, exuding excitement out of every pore. She seemed rather happy to have done her job. Perhaps she didn't succeed very often? "I know it's a wee bit cramped, like, but you're not moving in with a family, so it should be quite all right."

"Hmmm." Harris walked about the old place, inspecting the multiple holes in the ceiling. The floor was littered with the pooled excrement of multiple species. Cobwebs hung grandly from the dusty corners. "Needs some work, but I'm sure I can fit right in."

"Yup! I know it's a tad pricey, but the location is really isolated! Peace, quiet, all that, haha." Tiffany spread her arms wide. "Good thing you won't have roommates."

Harris sneered. "Heavens, no! I came here to escape all that buffoonery! After what happened last time... never again!"

"I know it ain't really proper, like, but what happened?" Tiffany inquired, stepping closer to him, hands behind her back. "If you don't mind sharing, that is."

"Humans," Harris replied irritably. "Wouldn't leave us in peace."

"Aye, I hear you." Tiffany nodded sagely. "Not a single piece of real estate do we find that they _don't _wanna take from us."

"Oh, I know. I've been driven out of eight establishments this past year alone! _Eight_!" Harris took a deep breath to calm his nerves. "All on account of their idiotic exorcisms. Why, all we want is a place to haunt in peace! Is that too much to ask?"

"Oh, no. Which is why we at Haunted Homes for Fatigued Phantoms have a 100% guarantee of finding the perfect haunt for you – pardon the pun, hehe." She giggled and bowed her head. "I'm just glad we were able to help you out."

Harris cracked a smile. "Yes. I'm grateful. The real estate situation _is_ gnarly. I'm happy you found this."

"You're very welcome. I know it's cheaper to move into a human home and share the property with other spirits, but seclusion is what we really want." She walked out onto the balcony, hands still clasped behind her back, and hummed happily. "I wanted to buy this place myself, you know. Always did like rivers. Me Da was a fisherman. That's how we passed, like. Capsizing."

"My condolences."

"It worked out." She smiled at him over her shoulder. "I hope you enjoy your stay. We'll finalise the agreement within the week and you can move in before the month is out!"

Harris smiled back but said nothing in response. He'd always wanted his own haunted house ever since he'd been a little ghost. Now, being an actual homeowner, it filled his chest with pride.

He knew he'd like the place. Having it all to himself, going out and coming in whenever, enjoying the scenery. It was all he'd ever wanted. And now that he was settled in unlife, he wanted to move on to the next thing on his list.

So, Harris went out into the balcony, shot Tiffany a sideways glance, cleared his throat, and said, "Fancy watching a spook together this weekend?"

* * *

"_Awwww_!" Leliana exclaimed. "That's so cute! What happens next?"

"Dunno." Alistair hiked his shoulders. "I made it up, like you said. I have no idea what happens."

"Ghosts looking for boarding _is_ a novel idea, friend Alistair," said Zevran thoughtfully and patted his back. "I am impressed. You _are_ good for more than hitting things with a sharp steel stick."

"I enjoyed the story, too, Alistair," Wynne added. Then she stood up, stifling a yawn. "But I am afraid I do need to go to bed. It's late, and we have an early start tomorrow."

"I agree. Sleep well, Wynne." Leliana smiled up at the elderly mage. "I'll take first watch since I'm up anyway. I don't feel like sleeping yet."

"I'll join you," Alistair said immediately.

Zevran chuckled. "In that case, I shall get some beauty sleep. Relieve you in three hours?"

"Perfect."

When they had the campsite all to themselves, Leliana slid up against Alistair and placed her head on his shoulder. "I really liked your story."

"And yours traumatised me," he replied, chuckling as she mock punched his ribs and put his arm around her shoulders. "But really. I'm in awe sometimes of just how good a storyteller you are."

"Only sometimes?"

"My mistake. You reign supreme on my mind night and day, O Divine Bard. Your pen pierces the highest heaven and makes the nectar of the drama gods drip down upon us mortal beings, enriching our very existence!"

Nuzzling her face into his neck, Leliana snickered. "It's dripped on you a bit too much, it would seem."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say. When it rains, it pours." Alistair kissed her forehead. "But seriously. I appreciate it. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"I want to find out what happens next, though."

"I wasn't lying, Leli. I really don't know what happens."

"I know," she said and rubbed his chest. "Make it up for me?" She walked her fingers up his chest. "_S'il vous plaît_?"

Alistair took a deep breath and caught her hand. He laced his fingers through hers and brought her knuckles up to his lips.

"No can do."

"Boo."

"However..."

"Hmm?"

He smiled and kissed her knuckles again. "It's a story I'd like to tell." He turned towards her and pressed his forehead against hers. "With you."

Leliana giggled and rubbed her nose up along his. "Is that your way of asking for a collaboration?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

She closed her eyes for a moment, humming as she pondered before giving in and pecking his lips softly.

"If not with you, then with whom?"

Alistair smiled. Their stories were irrevocably linked. Together, they were at their best, no matter what they chose to take on.

"Absolutely," he told her, grinning widely. "Our story will be the best one out there. I guarantee it."


End file.
